


Make Me Whole Again

by Azar443



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Newt has PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, triggers for PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12007377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/pseuds/Azar443
Summary: It starts with a low buzzing in his ears, and Newt feels irritation start to make its way all over him like a rash.





	Make Me Whole Again

In hindsight, Percival doesn’t know why he doesn’t pick up on the signs. The flinching, the nightmares, the avoidance of going anywhere overly loud. How Newt sometimes insist that he’s weak, that he’s not good enough, that he doesn’t know why Percival loves him. He’s not a very good partner, he thinks, when the man he loves has fucking PTSD and he doesn’t notice. It’s this unknowing of Newt’s trauma, of the wild flickering within hazel eyes and the subtly growing stutter of a quiet voice, which finds them at a visiting carnival. In all fairness, Newt is the one who first expresses his interest in going when they hear of the carnival, and Percival is only all too happy to bring his partner there, where they can spend a rare (and very much deserved) day off. Everything goes swimmingly at first. The sun shines through brightly and there’s a nice breeze that ruffles Percival’s loose hair, and Newt’s fingers itch to run through the downy hair. They share a corn dog and some cotton candy, and their entwined fingers are a little sticky. Everything goes downhill, however, when they approach the area with various games set up and one booth in particular, is a very loud, very realistic shooting game with children and youth yelling excitedly as they try to win the prizes. It’s a particularly crowded area, and the duo are trying to make their way through the crowd but there are bodies pressed against them and incoherent noises and Newt feels like he’s back  _there_.

It starts with a low buzzing in his ears, and Newt feels irritation start to make its way all over him like a rash, and no matter how hard he grits his teeth and no matter how many deep breaths he takes, the buzzing grows and grows until it’s all he can hear.  _It’s ok_ , he tells himself,  _just remember your breathing exercises and you’ll be ok_. One,  _breathe in_ , two,  _breathe out_ , three,  _breathe in_ , four- The pain starts, a slowly intensifying pain that gains momentum with each stilted breath he draws, and Newt feels Pain’s knobbly fingers scratching at his heart, and he presses a hand to his chest, trying to stifle the burning sensation.  _Why is his heartbeat so loud?_ He can feel control slowly slipping away, and his head feels so tight and  _he can’t breathe-_

There are no terrifying metal tanks coming his way, threatening to flatten him and his dragons. It’s just the sound of toy guns going off, he reassures himself, not the sounds of the battlefield. There are no Dark wizards shooting spells aiming to kill him or his comrades. The blinding green lights are just stage lighting and the screaming in his ears are those of children. No one wants to kill him.  _No one wants to kill him_. His breaths come in staccato rhythms, and Percival is in front of him saying something, but there’s wool in his ears and he can’t hear. Shaking fingers blindly reach out to grasp at Percival’s face, and Newt hears someone with a gasping, rasping voice saying again and again, “ _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, Percival don’t let me die_.” He realises, later on when the fog has lifted and he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning in an ever spiralling storm of panic and despair and fear, that the man begging for release from death was him.

Newt is being dragged away, his eyes see nothing but black, and there is sweat trickling down his face and back. But as the noise subsides, so does the trembling in his hands, and the loud thumping of his heartbeat in his ears grow softer. Sound filters back and little specks of light break through the wall of black that blinds his sight. He feels warm hands on his face and neck, and he finds his own hands clutching the silky material of Percival’s white shirt. His breaths still come in short bursts and pants, and Percival is saying something. If only he could hear just what-

“-breathe, Newt. Look at me, just breathe okay? Look at me love,  _look at me_.”

Tender fingers turn his face and his hazel eyes take in the dark brown orbs of his concerned lover. There’s a blankness in Newt’s gaze that frightens Percival, but he recognises that empty look, a familiar sight amongst his men during the war. Shell-shocked, they are called, but it isn’t till the men who survived and safe at home that the full extent of the damage borne of war is discovered. Percival knows of men,  _boys_  really, under his command who took their own lives when the hurt and trauma overwhelm their will to live. He could do nothing to help them then, but he’ll be damned if he lets the man he loves face the menace of his fears alone.

Their foreheads meet, and in a soft crooning voice, Percival lulls Newt’s frantic breathing to slow, and eventually, the magizoologist finds himself breathing in tandem with his love, their hearts beating as one. The tremor in his fingers lessen and eventually disappear, and the sheen of sweat coating his skin cools, leaving goosebumps in their stead. He becomes conscious of Percival murmuring gentle encouragement in his ears, about how he’s such a brave man, and how lucky Percival is to have him as a lover, and how every smile Newt bestows upon him is the light of his life. The panicked tears that clouded Newt’s vision diminishes, and Percival cannot help but marvel at how the tiny teardrops at the corner of his eyes catch the sunlight, reflecting brilliant colours in his lover’s bright eyes. Slowly, Newt feels himself returning, and the echoing laughter of Fear dissipates into the dark abyss of his mind. He manages a watery smile at Percival, whose breath of relief is a warm puff on his cheeks that seeps into his aching bones and chattering teeth.

They stay like that for several more minutes, enjoying the touch of their hands and foreheads and noses barely rubbing against one another. Eventually, the sounds of the carnival come back into focus, and Newt blinks, conscious of the curious glances thrown their way by the other carnival-goers. The veil of peace that settles over them breaks, the thin wisps trailing down and reminding them that they should move on. They speak not a word; Percival merely touches his partner’s face questioningly,  _are you ok_? There’s a pause, and Newt turns to press a kiss into Percival’s palm and answers with a small smile that reaches his eyes,  _I’m ok, as long as I’ve got you_. Their hands tangle within each other, and the wind caresses their hair and faces as they make their way home, home to where Percival will make hot cider and where Newt will be waiting in their bed, wrapped in warm blankets and flannel pyjamas. They’ll sit and whisper to each other, and Newt will tell Percival of how one of the dragons he commandeered was killed, and how he was crushed beneath the behemoth for near 12 hours before he was rescued. In turn, Percival will tell him about how he fought with Theseus in the war, of his men who begged for Death not to claim them, of the beautiful little brother the older Scamander told him of often. They will make love, slow and tender, and when their desire has sated, they’ll curl together and surrender to Morpheus’s sweet embrace. In the end, they’ll take it a day at a time, and with Percival, Newt will be whole again.


End file.
